


honey on the wire

by perpetualskies



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, a day in the life, domestic Saturdays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 18:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15587631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualskies/pseuds/perpetualskies
Summary: This is their precedent, Thiago thinks. This, and everything else along the way.





	honey on the wire

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this photo set at gravityhome dot tumblr dot com/post/174670106319, then decided Thiago should be a lawyer, Oscar a grad student and they should definitely live there. That's it. That's the AU. I also really, really needed some ubiquitously soft Thiago/Oscar.
> 
> Title from Adam Green. Thanks, Adam!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction and means no disrespect towards the parties depicted within. Please do NOT share this with the players or anyone associated with them, or re-post this work anywhere else. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Comments are love ❤

It’s early when Thiago wakes up, too early to move anywhere but closer to Oscar, to take a deep breath of him and release it with a sigh, to curl himself in the snuggest trajectory around him. This past week has taken its toll on them, too many exams and hearings, chasing after voice mails and office hours, and coffee coffee coffee. They’d been slipping past each other all week, their schedules brushing against each other but never quite aligning, came home to teacups in the sink and notes on the refrigerator and clothes discarded on the bathroom floor. This Saturday has been _earned_ , a long breakfast, a longer bath, quiet reading with the windows wide open or none of it at all, just the city after the rain and the soft foray of hands and lips finding each other in the midst of it. Thiago plants a kiss along the line of a shoulder blade, then another, burrows into the nest of blankets and Oscar, the feeling of coming home for good.

 

When he wakes up again, there’s the soft murmur of the kitchen radio, the gentle scrape of the coffee maker on the stove. Thiago stitches together the fragments of a dream, makes out the distinct lack of Oscar by his side, groans and tries to fight the daylight setting in. The door creaks open a moment later to reveal Oscar leaning against the frame, wearing a sweatshirt from Thiago’s Alma mater and sucking on a slice of water melon.

He’s got a whole bowl of them and dutifully spits out a couple of seeds before he speaks. “Do old people always sleep this much?” he asks and grins and Thiago sends a cushion flying after him.

 

Thiago loves waking up to the flat being alive with Oscar, loves joining him in the bath or sitting down at a table already set, loves watching him worry his lip over a second draft he just can’t put down. Loves the warmth that trails him, the vivaciousness, the silences they share at all the right moments, the way that Oscar breaks them, never at the wrong time. He’s got this boy striking down roots in his life faster than he can account for, got his coats and shirts and syllabi, the gentle pressure of his palm against his chest, the way he moves against him in the near-dark.

They’ve been so careful with each other, so cautious with every _yes_ and _no_ and _maybe_ in-between. They gave each other time, eased into a tender give-and-take, came to know the shape of something before they called it by a name. The city swayed the summer in their favour, provided the blueprints of long warm nights tucked in along the river, of libraries and coffee shops, of walking home past all the metro stops and talking, talking, talking. Now autumn is kicking up the foliage along the pavement, is washing out the dust and grime of a heat that just wouldn’t break, and Thiago has got used to this, to coming home to Oscar, to knowing their lives will brush each other every day. He’s proud of him too, the hard work he sees him put in, the exhaustion at the end of a particularly long day, the energy and motivation the next morning that abounds. He counts himself lucky, so lucky the way he gets to see him grow and spin his life into a shape, the way he gets to be a part of it. He marvels every day at the way they fit their truths against each other, the way they kiss and cook and orbit something just a little bigger than themselves.

It makes for a good distraction, the rise of fondness in his chest, the way the sun falls in and intersperses with this feeling of _each other_. Oscar must be onto that because he leans forward and kisses him over the coffee and the eggs, slides a foot against his ankle, then steals the newspaper right from under his nose.

“Hey!” Thiago protests, waving a slice of toast in indignation.

“Sorry,” Oscar says, entirely unapologetic, and skips right to the back page.

 

Morning stretches into midday, paves the way for a hot bath, the smooth slide of Oscar’s skin beneath Thiago’s hands, the little waves they make, the splashes on the custom tiling. There’s foam in Oscar’s hair, a little sheen of sweat across his forehead. “Thiago,” he says, drawn out and heady, tips his head back with a shudder. Thiago thinks he could come from the sight alone, the red in Oscar’s cheeks, the way his muscles flex under his touch. He slips his hand below the water, draws out a whine, sets down a rhythm, a reckless, selfish, living thing.

 

The afternoon finds them sufficiently caffeinated and just that little more ambitious for it. Oscar suggests a round of badminton and Thiago groans, his hand reflexively coming up to feel the small of his back. Oscar snorts and says they _each_ have to come up with a suggestion. Thiago comes up with a suggestion all right, mouths it along Oscar’s jaw, spells it out across his ribcage, slips it somewhere deep below the waistband of his briefs. The sun is fickle, undecided, makes it hard to come up with a plan and stick to it. They stay where they are, for the time being, strewn across the couch, languid where their touch finds each other, content with the undemanding coming and going of the world.

 

They do make it out of the house eventually. Go to a little art house cinema to watch something a little too obscure for Thiago’s taste, but Oscar loves it, keeps coming back to it again and again. They pick up something from the Asian restaurant on their way home. Oscar cracks the little fortune cookie and reads, “Move with the way of the waves, not against them,” then _hmmms_ in contemplation. Thiago watches him search for the keys, shoulder open the door, hears a, “I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?” called over his shoulder. He catches him by the wrist, pulls him close, looks at him for a long time, smiling.

“No tea?” Oscar asks, confused.

Thiago cups a hand to his cheek, runs a thumb along his bottom lip, leans in and catches with his lips the little sound Oscar makes at the back of his throat. Oscar relaxes against him, opens pliant and trusting, arches up and draws his hands around his neck. They kiss until the light goes off in the hallway, until Oscar breaks away and fumbles for the light switch, jingling the keys still stuck in the door. Oscar’s eyes are soft when the light goes back on. He smells the way the sheets smell in the morning, the way that home itself has come to smell. He reaches out and trails his fingertips across Thiago’s cheek, gently, gently. This is their precedent, Thiago thinks. This, and everything else along the way.

“Tea sounds lovely,” Thiago says, and Oscar smiles.

 

The evening winds down, fits itself around each and every corner, weaves a steady glow around the lamp shades standing guard. They pick up the loose threads of the day, the newspaper that lay abandoned after breakfast, a voicemail that came in while they were out. Oscar is looking up books in the online catalogue and curses at someone getting to “Directions in Sociolinguistics” before he did.

At night, they settle against each other, content, a little worn out, the best kind of tired. Oscar will be off to the library early, and Thiago mouths a lazy protest, closes in on a favourite spot behind his ear. Oscar laughs and yawns and twines their fingers together. He’s wearing Thiago’s sweatshirt again and Thiago absolutely _will_ steal it back tomorrow morning. Thiago’s thoughts start slipping, the tint of a dream setting in, the fading out of conscience into something softer, more forgiving. He feels Oscar move about, the familiar rearrangement of blankets, a foot brushing up and down along his own.

Outside, the night is fixing up the moon, is casting shadowscapes along the lining of the city. A gentle breeze is sowing sleep along its way.


End file.
